The Little Buke of Dublin [antikvár]

DUBLIN. My Dublin. The mere mention of her name fills the mind's nose with the intoxicating, hoppy perfume of brewing Guinness as it sashays along the Quays. And the oily bull-farts of the 7A bus as it settles down outside the old Irish Press building. And the eggy whang of the Liffey as the barometer raises its glass to smelly summertime. Oh yes, the cockles, the mussels, the smoky pubs, the tripe, the onions, the Rare Ould Times, Lugs Brannigan, the boxty, the Street singers, the well-fried offal, the occasional well-fried OfFaly man, the coddle... The rock stars, the writers, the whingers, the poets, the beggars, the lousers, the gougers, the uncivil servants, the pints of black stout, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, Brendan Behan, Ha'penny bridge, Floozy in Jacuzzi, Time in Slime, Tart with Cart. Ring a ring a rosy, "Anyone for de last of de Cheeky Charlies, MISSUS?!" That's the standard tour of Dublin for you and if that's all you want then tear out this page and throw away the rest of the book. Because The Standard Tour of Dublin is precisely what this little book is